The World
by AmethystWren
Summary: One-shot. George struggles to realise his feelings for Elizabeth and, once he has done so, how to tell her. One-sided George/Elizabeth.


**I decided I rather liked George, and I adore Elizabeth, and wanted to explore them a little more in light of the finale. Please note that I've not read the books (I started the first a few days ago), so if anything here contradicts them I apologise. As far as I know, it works in the tv show canon though (at least so far)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Poldark, or any of the characters and ideas you may recognise from it.**

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Elizabeth Chenoweth was made for Ross Poldark. It was plain to see when they were children; Elizabeth was so well-behaved and so good unless Ross was present, and then suddenly she became cheeky and energetic and, well, childish. It only grew more obvious as they wandered on into adulthood. They'd always been the best of friends, but soon there were _rumours_. George hadn't believed them at first- maybe he didn't want to- but one day he saw them chasing each-other up and down the beach and he knew them to be true.

He'd always liked Elizabeth. At least, he'd never hated her. After Ross was arrested and subsequently sent away to fight in America, George checked up on Elizabeth Chenoweth. He'd visit her every so often, always under a different pretence- he was just passing through and thought he might pop in, he wanted to discuss something with her mother- and made sure only to leave when he was quite sure she was holding up okay. He'd frequent various pubs so that he could sidle up to drunken strangers and ask them if they'd heard any gossip regarding her, confident that they'd not remember their conversation come morning.

None of this ever struck George as odd. He just thought that since Ross and Elizabeth always came as a pair, she must've felt so lost without him. He was just looking out for her, he told himself.

The rumours he teased from these drunken strangers were never juicy, but he still found them interesting: trivial things such as her buying a new dress or meeting other ladies of her station for tea. But then one day, he heard she was engaged.

"She's engaged to Poldark?" George had asked, confused. "I thought Ross was dead?"

"Aye, 'e is," tonight's stranger confirmed. "It's 'is cousin."

"Francis?"

"Aye, that'un."

George's first thought was how _wrong_ that was. Elizabeth was exciting. She was beautiful, clever, sophisticated- she would be wasted on Francis Poldark. He was half-tempted to ride over to her house immediately so he could tell her just _how_ wrong this was, but he was sober enough to know that that was just the alcohol talking, and ignored the impulse.

Ross' return home was a surprise to everyone, and to George it was secretly a welcome one. If anyone could put an end to Elizabeth's ridiculous engagement, it was him.

George was therefore very disappointed to receive an invitation to her wedding a few weeks later.

She was marrying the wrong Poldark! God, didn't she _see_ that?

Of course she did, he reasoned with himself. But they'd all thought Ross dead, and at least if she married his cousin she'd still carry his surname, still be a part of his family, even if it would be one devoid of him. George was, at heart, a hopeless romantic.

He went to the wedding.

The next rumour he heard of Elizabeth worth any note was that she was pregnant. He'd hurried over to see her immediately (Was she alright? Was she in pain?) but was instead greeted by Verity, her sister-in-law.

"She's quite alright, Mr Warleggan," Verity had assured him. "Easily tired, yes, and her moods are rather unpredictable but such things are to be expected. Why are you so concerned about Elizabeth's well-being?"

He came up with some vague excuse to do with some nonexistent cousin who died of fantastical complications during her alleged pregnancy and went on his way.

Ross did marry, but not Elizabeth. He married his kitchen maid. And though George wanted to be angry at him for abandoning Elizabeth to a loveless marriage with a dull, dull man not worthy of her excellence, he found that he couldn't be. Ross loved Demelza. It was obvious. When George wished them luck, he meant it.

And then he learned that Francis had been cheating on Elizabeth. George had been angry in his life, but nothing compared to this. He was _furious_. Heavens, she must be heart-broken. She would know, he was sure of it; if not now, then she'd figure it out soon enough. Elizabeth always had been so very clever and incredibly perceptive. Urgh, why would you feel the need to seek love elsewhere when you had Elizabeth? Elizabeth, the most charming, most beautiful treasure in all of England.

He'd not wanted to listen to his father's "advice", but after that his mind had been set. Nothing he did could possibly hurt Elizabeth as much as her husband had. Befriending Francis Poldark was the most difficult thing George had ever done in his life, but watching him lose the mines more than made up for it. He deserved to lose his livelihood. He'd been granted the world, and it hadn't been enough for him.

With his father on his back, George courted ladies, but it was never anything serious. He came close to proposing a few times, yet found he could not. Something wasn't right. Nobody ever seemed to _fit_. It took him a while to figure out why, and when it did the realisation hit him with such force that his knees seemed to weaken and he felt slightly dizzy: they didn't feel right because they weren't _her_. They weren't Elizabeth.

His feelings realised, George began to formulate a plan. She was already married, but surely she wouldn't be adverse to an affair of some sort; her husband certainly wasn't. She was unhappy in her marriage, that much was clear, and George now knew that Ross Poldark was not the one to fix that. He had to do it. He had to rescue her from her loveless bond to a dull, dull man.

George was usually rather good with words. He'd learned as a boy that a few choice words at the right time could save a whole heap of trouble. With all the ladies he'd courted, he'd been able to make them blush and giggle without really trying. But Elizabeth. If he made her giggle or blush then that would be fine, but it wasn't what he wanted. He wanted her to feel happy and loved. He wanted her to know that she was everything, she was the world, and he would willingly do anything she asked of him.

He waited to tell her. Waited and waited until he was sure he had the words, yet when he found himself alone with her his mouth went dry and his tongue refused to work.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting her to do. It wasn't throw herself into his arms proclaiming her never-ending love for him, he knew, but neither was it the coldness of her voice, the- god, was that _disdain_ in her eyes?- when she acknowledged his feelings but turned him away.

He'd known rejection in his life, but it had never stung quite like this. And as she walked away, he felt as though a piece of him left with her.

George Warleggan wasn't the sort of man to cry himself to sleep at night, for pain was merely a part of life and he respected that. But that night he did. Because pain was an ache, a sting, an itch. Pain hurt, but it passed. This hurt enough to cause death, he was sure. Part of him wished he _was_ dead, if it meant an end to this suffering.

The next morning, he washed his face and changed his clothes and tried his hardest to put it behind him. So, it seemed, did Elizabeth. They didn't really speak again for a while, not properly at least; she always found a way to make sure they were never alone together.

He thought perhaps he was imagining her lingering glances, the stolen glimpses of eye contact they would hold across ballrooms and dinner tables. He hoped with all his being that he was not.


End file.
